


The Promise

by AZ-5 (elim_garak)



Series: The Promise [3]
Category: Homeland
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Character Death Fix, Eventual Happy Ending, For All Deserving, Multi, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Seizures, because fight me on this they all deserved better, but she doesn't so there you go, canon compliant unless carrie dies in season 8
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22788454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elim_garak/pseuds/AZ-5
Summary: .CHAPTER 4BACKIS NEW. UPDATED ON SEPTEMBER 16, 2020Post season 6, canon compliant story where Quinn survives season 6 finale and, with some help, manages to get a chance at that elusive normal life he's always wanted. Away from the Agency and the missions, for a little over three years he's been working hard to rebuild his health, keep a job, and try to live out the rest of his life doing some good, with no hope or agenda aside from finding a small, well-deserved measure of peace.That is until something happens, and he realizes he was a fool to believe he could escape the pull of the darkness. Reassured once again he has no place among normal people, he's determined to go back to the person he was before, leaving everything he's built in the last three years behind. He does so believing he's keeping a promise to an old friend. Until he realizes he's been trying to keep the wrong promise, and is forced to stay, step up, face his demons, and deal with them.
Relationships: Carrie Mathison/Peter Quinn(eventually), Peter Quinn/John Jr. (Homeland), Peter Quinn/Julia Diaz(in the past), Peter Quinn/Richard Samuels(OC)
Series: The Promise [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1512665
Comments: 76
Kudos: 103





	1. Cinde-fuckin’-rella

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NikitaSunshine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikitaSunshine/gifts), [hidingupatreeorsomething](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidingupatreeorsomething/gifts), [Sh_ua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sh_ua/gifts), [Murmures1234](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murmures1234/gifts), [Frustsheep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frustsheep/gifts).



You cannot fake a life. 

There was a man he knew once. An old, seasoned Mossad operative named Ari. That’s what he used to say: “You cannot fake a life.”

“Name? Date of birth? Social security number? Sure,” he once said. “I mean, with the right connections and for the right price, everything being digital nowadays and all… hell, you can fake anything you want: birth certificate, parents, an actual college degree - you name it. And that’s just what  _ our _ guys can do. Semi-legal, so to speak. A guy once told me there are identity craftsmen out there that can give you a whole new life. Deep cover. Zero trace-back. Make you disappear for good.  Poof . Gone.”

That piqued Quinn’s interest. Enough so that, despite the exfil team being nearly there, he stopped disassembling the gear and glanced over his shoulder. “You can’t possibly believe that shit, Ari.” 

Clicking the rounds into the magazine ,  the old man chuckled. “Do I believe something like that is possible?” He shrugged. “Maybe. Probably. But that’s not the right question, is it?” Seeing how he’d finally gotten Quinn’s undivided attention, Ari stopped packing and sat on his duffel bag. “See, the question is - can you do it? Say, you find the guy who can make it happen, and you cash out. Get a whole new iden tity. N ew people. New parents. New job. Deep cover. For good, man .  No coming back. Ever. Could you do it? Fake it for that long? I mean… A cover is just paperwork. Digital footprint. Whatever. But imagine… life, man. Your whole life. A lie. Fake. Sham. All those people. Your new family. Friends. Colleagues. How do you fake  _ that? _ I’m telling you, man. You can’t. Nobody can. That’s how you get found out. Sooner or later. Because you can fake an identity. But life? Love? Caring for all these new people? Getting attached? Nah… Nobody can fake that.”

  
  
  
  


He was still David Exley, and still in hiding, when he remembered Ari’s words as he stood slouching over the balustrade on Margaret’s Bridge in Budapest, mesmerized by the confetty of street lights sprinkled over the shimmering surface of Danube below.

Even now, nearly three years later, having learnt the hard way just how true the old operative’s words were, he still wonders sometimes…

...that night in Budapest in late April of 2017, the night that he made the call, did he really think he could make it? Beat those odds? Fake it? Live a lie, day after day, for the rest of his life?

Fuck if he knows. 

All he remembers is when Max first suggested it, he was skeptical. To say the least. Not because he didn’t trust Max (which he did, quite literally with his life at the time), nor because he doubted Max’s ability to put him in touch with one of the three people in the world known to be skillful enough to make it happen. But because in his day he’d used enough cover identities to know how much research and prep-work goes into crafting even the simplest one. Deep cover of this magnitude? A complete workover? For life? He just couldn’t begin to fathom the amount of skill, access, and resources someone would need to pull it off.

Of course, at the time, injured fugitive that he was, stranded in a foreign country, once again at the mercy of the same people he’d spent years trying to escape, Quinn didn’t have it in him to argue. Nor did he care enough to protest. 

In fact, to this day he can’t be entirely sure he’d actually given Max  the ‘green light’. All he knows is that four months later, barely two week s out of the hospital where he’d landed with two bullets in his chest and, if you believed the flight paramedic,  _ ‘little-to-no chances of making it’ _ , there they were, halfway across the world, meeting up in the dead of the night for what would be the very last time.

Max appeared out of the fog, as if emerging from a reality so far gone that it already seemed like a distant dream. A slight nod of  the head being the only acknowledgement that it’d been months since they last saw each other, he produced a folded piece of paper and, pointlessly blowing on frozen hands, slid it across the railing . 

“You’ll only be able to use this number once,” he said, as usual, without further ado, getting straight to business. “Make sure you have good cell coverage. If the call gets cut off, you’ll never reach him again.” Taking Quinn’s silence as his cue to continue, “B e prepared. He’ll know stuff about you, ask you questions. Answer truthfully. These people - they do their homework.”

Quinn slowly unfolded the paper, staring blankly at the two words underlined by a row  of digits. 

_ “Fairy Godmother?” _ he spoke at last, wryly emphasizing every syllable as his eyes moved from the contact’s name to Max’s face. “Really, Max?”

Despite the growing unease, Max raised a mockingly indignant finger. “Hey! It took me six weeks in some of the shadiest chatrooms on...” He stopped, realizing at the last moment that an attempt to explain to the “digitally challenged” ex-assassin what tracking down a contact on darknet involves  could prove more challenging than the actual task. “Trust me,” he summed up instead, pushing the glasses up on his nose bridge, “he’s the real deal.”

Oh, Quinn didn’t doubt that _. _

“Yeah… but  _ Fairy Godmother?” _ he prompted nevertheless, almost tauntingly. “Wouldn’t that make me...?”

Max rolled his eyes, using every ounce of willpower to choke back the _ Cinde-fuckin’-rella _ on the tip of his tongue. “Well…” Motioning to Quinn’s scruffy appearance, “... if  _ anyone  _ could use a makeover...”

They both breathed a laugh so faint it barely spawned a quill of white steam in the night air - a lighthearted moment as rare as it was short lived - before Max’s face began to fall again. Catching Quinn’s probing stare, he was hit by the realization that there was no going back, and it was time to divulge the  _ real _ reason he insisted on flying halfway  around the world as opposed to using their well established secure channel.

He  took a long minute, watching the smudges of city lights through a blur of tears. “Look,” he heaved finally, measuring every word. “These people - the way they operate - if you go through with it, chances are, we won’t be meeting again. Ever.”

There was a momentary respite as they both took it in.

“Shit, Max…”

“I know.”

“How is it even…?”  Quinn paused once more, battling the frustration that came with the constant struggle of reaping the words scattered all over his cluttered brain and pinning them in the right places. “Dar knows, right? That I’m here, I mean. Alive. And you know. The paramedics, people in the hospital, maybe others. You don’t just… people don’t just disappear. Somebody knows. Always. It’s not… this thing, how would it even work?“

Max shook his head. “I don’t know.  _ Nobody _ knows. That’s the whole  _ point. _ People who went through with it, it’s not like they stuck around to make ‘How-To’ videos. This is not WITSEC, Quinn, you don’t get to come back when it blows over. All I know is, by the time he’s done with you, not Dar, not me...  _ nobody _ will know you’re alive.”

“Except _him.”_ Quinn retorted, pointedly flicking the paper in his hand. _“He_ will know.” It only dawned on him then that from now on the only person aware of his existence would be some shady motherfucker that he’d probably never meet in person. “How can I be… This man, this _Fairy…_ how do I know he won’t…?”

“...sell you out to the highest bidder? Renege on the deal?”

A nod. “Yes. Or up his ask. How can I trust him?”

“Truth?” Max cleared his throat, shrugging. “You can’t.” He lowered his voice in an attempt to sound as reassuring as he possibly could. “Look. What these people do, the money they make, the connections, the resources… their reputation is all they got. If he blows your cover, he’ll lose  a hell of a lot more than you will. I guess, you can trust  _ that.” _

Upon a short hesitation, Quinn finally managed a leery nod, suddenly feeling the chill creeping deeper, all the way to the bone. It was time to go. Despite the late hour and a relatively secluded spot, meeting like this was not safe. 

As if reading his mind, Max warily glanced at his watch and stepped closer. “Hey…” he strained finally. “You’ll be ok. More than ok. You’ll be great.” 

Quinn huffed a joyless chuckle.  _ I’ll miss you too, Max. _ “Yeah.”

They said goodbye on the same sidewalk fifteen minutes later: a firm handshake, a quick hug, and  one last long l ook. A s he watched Max’s figure dwindle, fading back into the mist of his now soon-to be former reality, Quinn knew if he were to make that call, it was now or never. 

He looked up, trailing a silvery plume of his breath until it cleared revealing a pitch black sky studded with stars. Pressing the phone to his ear, he studied them carefully, wondering if the stars of his own life had somehow oddly aligned, or whether they’d finally disarrayed completely.

The line picked up instantaneously, a creaky, digitally distorted voice on the other side erasing the last of his doubts. “Peter Quinn?”

He cleared his throat. ”And you are…?”

“...wondering if you’re wasting my time.”

  
  
  
  


He wasn’t. 

Or was he?

He sighs, tossing another pair of jeans into the travel bag and pressing it down as hard as he can.

The day he rented this place he had nothing but the clothes on his back and a change of underwear. Today, three years later, he started out with two travel bags and half a dozen cardboard boxes, having realized as soon as he emptied the first shelf that his books alone would need twice as much.

Because the truth is - Ari was right. 

You can not fake a life. 

Y ou can have a different set of parents, siblings, an actual high school diploma with a decent GPA, a college degree - the whole deal. You can still be a veteran, albeit with an entirely different service history, one that  supposedly  ended with a head injury that conveniently explains every one of your disabilities. 

You can wake up every morning - for weeks, even months - having to  remind  yourself to log into your social media accounts; not because you want or care to, but because - to your great dismay - having a normal-ish digital footprint is part of your cover, and your cover is the only thing that's keeping you alive. 

You can recite the details of what you somewhat fondly refer to as  your  _ “last  _ _ cover story” _ every time you brush your teeth or eat your Cheerios, so that you don’t flinch when asked how many siblings you have.

You can lie through your teeth, day after day, pretending to be somebody’s son, somebody’s brother, somebody’s uncle, even when the genuine care in their eyes haunts your guilt-ridden dreams. You can tell yourself, time and again, that this is no different: after all, you’ve been living a lie - many lies,  _ worse _ lies - for as long as you can remember. 

But then, one night, you find yourself barging into an emergency room where your four-year-old niece was just brought with febrile seizures. Rattled so hard you can barely speak, you’re about to do some serious damage to the admission clerk who takes too long to recover her record when you hear a familiar voice call out a name you once  swore  you’d never get used to; and you swing around, letting out a sigh of relief at the sight of a man whom two years ago you didn’t even know. One look at his ashen face and you unceremoniously take the sleeping baby from his arms, commanding him to go get some air; promising  him  that you  _ ‘got this _ _ ’.. _ _. _ and you stay. Despite  having just worked a night  shift, going on thirty six hours without sleep ... you stay. For as long as it takes. Because, apparently, that’s what big brothers are for.

And that’s when you know. Right there, in the overcrowded emergency room, slouched on a plastic chair with a sick child sprawled on your chest - you just know…

...you cannot fake a life. 

Not even if the life itself is an elaborate sham. 

It hits you as you’re rocking her back to sleep while humming something horribly off-tune in her ear:  the  birth certificate saying you’re this girl’s uncle might be fake, but the ache in your heart as she half opens her puffy, tear-stained eyes and murmurs  _ ‘I told them you’d come…’ _ is so real it nearly tears you apart.

And  you’ve known it every day since. 

But then, you didn’t just  _ know, _ did you? For the first time in many years, you let yourself believe again, dream, hope. Thinking your luck had finally turned; thinking that maybe, just maybe, now that you were one of the normal people, you would be allowed a normal life. A normal love. 

Long after you first got here, you still found it hard to sleep through the night. Awakened by the sound of a passing car or a dog barking in the distance, you’d lie still, all of your senses sharpened and attuned... waiting. 

Because there was never a doubt. You knew that one of these days there would be a knock on the door; or maybe just a phone call - a vaguely familiar voice telling you that the joke’s over, and it’s time to shit, shower, shave and go. You’d  kept  your belongings to a bare minimum, your duffel bag ready at all times. Because you  _ knew: _ when that day comes, you’d do what you always have; and go. 

You’re not sure when, or how, or why it all changed; but it did. And now, you sleep like a dead man. You don’t even remember the last time you were awakened by anything other than your service dog slobbering your face and whimpering in anticipation of your morning run. As for your old duffel bag - y ou’d given it to one of the kids from the Shelter so long ago that you neither remember nor care if you’d ever gotten it back.

And that’s why last night, when that inevitable phone call  _ did  _ come, you were not ready. Because somewhere along the way you got too comfortable, careless. You forgot that normal life, or normal love, is for normal people. You forgot about the darkness. Which is ironic, because, as it turns out, it’s never forgotten about you. 

The truth is, maybe somebody else  _ could  _ fake a life; maybe somebody else could not care, or dream, or hope. But you? You never could.

You don’t believe in fate, or destiny, or horoscopes. 

And, in a way, it’s a shame. Because if you did, maybe three years ago you would’ve been wise enough to stay away. You would’ve remembered why every time you came this close to having a normal life, or a normal love, you chose to walk away instead. 

Because here’s the thing: this death, this senseless tragedy, is exactly what you knew would happen. Deep down, you’ve always known that sooner or later, just like it did last night, something would pull you back into darkness, dragging those too close by - those most dear - along with you. 

And that of all your foolish dreams and hopes, of all the lies you had forced yourself to believe, this carefully crafted, custom-tailored, beautiful new life that you nurtured and cherished was the biggest false glimmer of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NS- I'm running out of ways to tell you just how grateful I am to you and for you. But I'm not running out of determination to keep trying. Love you, bunny
> 
> hidingupatreeorsomething- so here you go. And I know there isn't a lot of Willow in the first chapter, but I promise to remedy that ailment asap


	2. sudo rm -rf --no-preserve-root /*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oxymoronically, annihilating everything he had built over the past three years, stripping him of all he had worked so hard to become, and completely obliterating the only life that was ever truly his took all of... 
> 
> ...eight hours and forty five minutes... 
> 
> ...and about an hour ago, precisely at 5:48pm EST, CPS on-site support case worker Noah Hayes, special forces veteran, son of Laura Hayes, beloved brother of James and Aidan Donovan, and adored uncle of Casey, Ashley, and Michael, effectively ceased to exist… 
> 
> ...and a man named Peter Quinn (who, ironically, never _really_ existed) was born again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doing my best to stay focused and productive during these challenging times. Thank you for being such supportive crowd y'all. Take care of yourselves and your loved ones!

He’d been told none of this would be his choice.

And why would it be? What did he really know about it?

He’d used cover IDs before, true. But even the best cover ID is just that - a _cover,_ a means to an end. Sure, it can be handy for gaining access to a military installation, infiltrating a terrorist cell, you name it. But even the best cover ID in the world won’t stand up to a good, old-fashioned background check.

This was a whole different game. An experienced operative would take an hour - two tops - to memorize everything they need to know about a cover. It took him over three weeks just to learn how to use Facebook without setting off the ‘bot’ alarms of every data mining software on the planet.

When you’re given a new, scrupulously crafted identity of this caliber, you don’t get to choose your name, or your age, or your online accounts; nor do you get to choose your employment history, your service record, your past, or your family. You don’t get to choose _when_ it’ll happen, or what it’ll take. You don’t get to choose what plastic surgery you’ll need to make you look like your own doppelganger - a subtle change, just enough to confuse any face-recognition software out there.

All you get is a price offer, and, if you choose to accept it - a _chance._ You get to work your ass off for _months,_ learning to be somebody else, a whole different person, for the rest of your life, all the while watching your old life, the person you _used_ to be, get wiped off the face of the Earth. And, if you’re really, _really_ lucky, in the end, you get a bunch of papers and passwords, a bulletproof background, and the ‘green light’.

Salem, Oregon. Was where his new life was _supposed_ to happen.

 _Not_ Philadelphia.

Not within a two-hour drive from the people who could still easily recognize him. Definitely not within walking distance of the school in front of which he sat in his car every morning , just out of sight several blocks down the street, watching the kids pour into the schoolyard, hoping to get a glimpse of his son.

In fact, he wasn’t supposed to go anywhere _near_ the East Coast for at least five years following relocation.

He didn’t care.

He wanted what he paid for - what he _thought_ he’d paid for - with every penny in his off-shore saving accounts and with the pain of the people he’d left behind to mourn him: he wanted a _chance._ But not just a chance to start over. He wanted _the_ chance, _his_ chance - the chance to live out the rest of his life in a place where he could watch the boy in the pictures grow up. Even if just from afar.

Needless to say, the Fairy Godmother didn’t approve. He’d explained the risks over and over. But Quinn wouldn’t budge.

It was a deal breaker, he said. _“Fucking take it or leave it,”_ to be exact. Philly or nothing.

He said he was willing to pay extra. Whatever it takes.

And that he did.

Not back then. And not in money.

But three years later, he sure as hell paid the price.

______________________

If there’s one thing he learnt during his change-of-identity training (the grueling five months that the Fairy Godmother fondly referred to as _“Normal life how-to 101”,_ and that, for the record, made some of his Agency training pale in comparison) is that, contrary to everything he’d been taught as a covert operative, in a world of social media and data mining, the only way to really disappear is to _appear._

That it’s not enough to _have_ a new life: you need to have _lived_ it.

And that if you’re hoping to stay under the radar in a world mapped and indexed by Facebook, Instagram, Google, and Twitter, you can’t lurk in the shadows: you have to get out there, in the spotlight, and mix in with the crowd.

By the time his “new life” was ready for showtime, he already had a digital footprint the size of which would’ve made the old him writhe and blister like a vampire under the morning sun. The above included, among other things, an active Facebook account _supposedly_ opened five years beforehand, a six-year old Gmail with full inbox, a fairly recent Twitter account with a couple dozen of followers - the list goes on.

There was a reason for that. Besides the aforementioned get-in-the-spotlight bit.

He’s never met the Fairy Godmother in person. For all he knows, he’s never spoken to him - or _her_ \- on the phone, either. To this day, not only does he not know if his mysterious handler is in fact a man or a woman, he wouldn’t be surprised to one day discover that the _Fairy Godmother_ is not a person at all, but a screen name hiding a vast online identity craftsmen syndicate.

The whole interplay, including his training, has been based on an intricate _“hiding-in-plain-sight”_ setup that involves exchanging encoded messages via seemingly innocent social media status updates and comments.

Ironically, Facebook, where it all started, is where it’s all going to end.

He was told the _“Termination Package”_ was extra: Extra pay, extra training, extra risk. He can’t say any of the above surprised him. After all, it’s hard to imagine anyone planning on going back to their old life after working so hard to escape it.

But old habits die hard. And, as much as he wanted to believe that he was at long last putting his past behind him, every covert-operative-paranoia-soaked fiber of his being squirmed in agony at the mere thought of voluntarily entering a situation - _any_ situation - without _some_ kind of exit strategy in place.

So, he paid.

And within two days his preconfigured Facebook account was switched to one that supposedly included something called _“Contact Package”,_ the content of which he never really understood.

In the three years he’s been with the program, he has made contact twice: a little over two years ago to report a _‘potentially compromised cover’_ (although, to be fair, there was nothing _‘potential’_ about _that_ clusterfuck), and at 9:03 EST this morning - to officially request _‘termination instructions’._

He was told it would take time.

Two years ago, getting confirmation that his cover was once again secure took a little over a week.

Receiving a cover adjustment plan at his follow-up request took almost two months.

Oxymoronically, annihilating everything he had built over the past three years, stripping him of all he had worked so hard to become, and completely obliterating the only life that was ever truly his took all of...

...eight hours and forty five minutes...

...and about an hour ago, precisely at 5:48pm EST, CPS on-site support case worker Noah Hayes, special forces veteran, son of Laura Hayes, beloved brother of James and Aidan Donovan, and adored uncle of Casey, Ashley, and Michael, effectively ceased to exist…

...and a man named Peter Quinn (who, ironically, never _really_ existed) was born again.

He’s not sure how much time has passed since he received the last message. He just sat there, at his desk, staring blankly at the long blackened screen of his laptop as the shadows grew darker, then longer, then dimmer, before blending into the gloom altogether.

Each time he blinks, the drag of his eyelids against his corneas feels like sandpaper.

Each time he opens his eyes, the numbers are there, scribbled across the creased piece of paper from the CPS logo pad on his desk. Two numbers, and four words: the latitude and longitude coordinates of the location where his new - or should he say _old_ \- identity package is waiting to be picked up, followed by the only remotely personal communication he’s ever received from the Fairy Godmother:

_“I’m so sorry, Peter.”_

_Yeah. Me too._

It’s time. If he’s hoping to pick up the package by the end of the week, they need to leave by tomorrow night at the latest.

He grabs his phone, snaps the picture of the original - undeciphered - message on Facebook, types the coordinates into the cheapest GPS tracker he could find on short notice, and tosses the smoldering slag of the note into an emptied metal trash can under his desk.

That done, for the first time in three years he logs _out_ of Facebook, closes the browser window, and launches the Terminal.

He doesn’t need to look up the command sequence: it’s been burnt into his memory from the very first day of his training. It’s like a mantra he’s been reciting over and over this whole time: _“In case of compromised cover or confirmed termination, wipe every hard drive in your possession: sudo rm -rf --no-preserve-root /*”_

He draws a breath, closing his eyes as he lets the air trickle out, and sets his hands on the keyboard.
    
    
    sudo
    

_Enter_

Password

_Enter_
    
    
    rm -rf --no-preserve-root /*
    

_Enter_

The screen blinks twice as rows upon rows of script and commands he’ll never understand fill the window.

Then all goes black.

Not that he knows what any of this means, but he has a feeling Max would be proud.

And just like that, he feels sick to his stomach.

It’s been three and a half years since that night in Budapest. Three years and two months since his second - and final - “death”.

Did Max know? Did he figure it out? Did he realize that the apparent discovery and subsequent murder of David Exley was part of his new cover? Part of the plan?

He must have. Of all people, surely Max would.

_“...these people, the way they operate… by the time he’s done with you, not Dar, not me - nobody will know you’re alive.”_

...wasn’t that what he said?

He _must_ have known. He better...

...or Quinn showing up at his doorstep in a couple of days will be a hell of an eye-opener.

The knock on the door startles them both.

From where she’s been balled in the corner ever since they returned from the crime scene late last night, Willow lets out a soft yelp, giving him a long, disconsolate stare before tucking her nose back in the fold of her tail with a deep, mournful sigh.

A wave of despair washes over him, followed by one of helplessness and remorse. He’s seen people - friends, comrades, enemies - mourn the loss of their loved ones. Not once did he know what to say. Or do. Or both. Nor did he ever try.

But he wants to, now. He wants to - no, needs to - make it better for her, the world be damned. For every time her instincts have saved his life. For every time she has used her body to soften the blows as he lay convulsing on the side of the road, thrown herself between him and a passing car, nudged him back into consciousness after post-ictal. For every time he’d woke up from a nightmare thrashing under her weight, pinned down, grounded, tethered - he needs to be there for her. And he can’t. And it tears him apart.

The knocking repeats, softer this time, and he can’t help a smile.

He will miss this.

He’ll miss Ellie and Roger - the small grocery store owners from two stories down (and the building’s self-appointed welcoming committee) dropping in for a casual visit, never empty-handed unless it’s to invite him for dinner. He will miss stopping by the store on his way back from a night shift for a strong cup of coffee and one of Ellie’s freshly baked cinnamon rolls, or just helping Roger rearrange the stuff on the shelves on his days off.

He will miss all of it: his morning runs, his job at the shelter, the kids, his “brothers”, even his therapist. But he will miss this - this house, the people, the smells, the noises: having neighbors, _being_ a neighbor - the most.

“Hello, dear.” Ellie’s soft, soothing voice fills the room as soon as the door is open.

He half expects to see Roger with his borderline socially-awkward half-smirk cowering behind her, but she’s alone this time. And, in a way, it’s a relief.

He draws a breath but the words, if there are any, bottleneck at the squeeze of his throat.

Ellie looks in over his shoulder, past him, at the strewn about half-packed books, plates, pots, silverware, cups, glasses - little things, stuff that life’s made of. _Was_ made of.

“It is true then,” she sighs, shaking her head. “You _are_ leaving. When Roger told me I thought surely he must’ve misunderstood or…”

The seconds pile on until they are too many to bear.

Quinn clears his throat. “I wasn’t... I was going to stop by before I… I was going to say goodbye.”

Ellie’s mouth tightens into a thin smile. “Oh, we would love that, dear. Roger and I. We would love that very much.”

She doesn’t ask where he’s going; or why. She’s never asked where he came from, either. It’s one of the things he’s always loved about her. It’s like a part of her always knew there was a part of him that had to remain hidden for the rest of him to survive.

“Here,” she says, and it’s only now that he notices she’s holding a neatly bundled pile of cardboard boxes. “Roger said you came by the store this morning asking for boxes, so…”

Did he? His attempt to rewind the day yields nothing but splotchy memory with bits and pieces of places and words flashing in and out.

He carefully takes the pile nevertheless. “Thank you.”

“Noah…” She wraps her fingers around his wrist, cold, and soft, and dry, and gentle, and every shade of comforting in existence. “If there’s anything… _Ever…_ if you…” Drawing a breath as she regains her composure, “We’re here. Roger and I. Always. Please, promise me, if there’s ever…”

“I will.” He nods, forcing the most reassuring smile he can muster. “I promise.”

Ellie smiles back. And he knows that she knows that he doesn’t mean it; but that there’s a part of him that wishes he did.

“I’ll leave you to it then.” She turns to leave, but stops and looks over her shoulder one last time. “I’m sorry about your friend, Noah.”

He just swallows, the mere mention of last night making the world shift to grayscale.

Ellie shakes her head. “I couldn’t believe it when Roger told me. And then I saw it on the news. And that poor girl from the shelter, too. Horrible business. What a world we live in…”

He feels dizzy, sick to his stomach again. If she only knew.

“She was a great lady. Your friend. I wish I’d gotten to know her better. Always so kind. And those poor, beautiful children. Two girls and a boy, was it?”

He coughs. “Yes. Mia and Luna. And John.” A gulp: “Johnny.”

Ellie nods. “She showed me their pictures. Just the other week. Beautiful family.” She closes her eyes. “The way her face would just… light up every time she’d mention them.”

He remembers. He remembers everything about her: her face, her eyes, her smile, her voice, her laugh, her touch, her scent, like a time-scrambled mosaic of senses from the first time he laid eyes on her fifteen years ago, to the final glimpse he’d caught last night when, at the nod of her captain, the head of the CSU briefly unzipped the top of the body bag.

So he could see.

So he could know.

He closes the door and carefully sets the boxes down in the nearest corner. He won’t be needing those after all.

On his bed, courtesy of Amazon Prime and Same Day Delivery, is a brand new duffel bag. It’s not nearly as sturdy as advertised, nor is it big enough to accommodate all of his earthly possessions. Which is fine, really. Because today of all days he knows better than ever that nothing is built to last. And where he’s heading, he won’t be needing much.

He turns at the sound of Willow stirring in her spot, suddenly realizing she hadn’t come to the door to greet Ellie - one of her favorite people. She hasn’t touched her food, either.

He crosses over, sliding to the floor next to her and smiling sadly as she stretches to rest her head on his thigh.

“I miss her too, girl,” he whispers, running his left hand through her long, shimmering coat - his favorite kind of physiotherapy. “But you gotta eat,” he adds, forcing a neary playful tone. “If she saw us like this, two miserable, hungry goofballs huddled together in the corner, she would kick our asses. You know she would.”

Willow wags her tail once, ears perking up as she lifts her head. Seeing him smile, she wiggles closer, both paws on his lap now. He laces his arms around her, letting his head roll back and his eyes close, and before he knows it, he’s falling, plunging through layers of consciousness into a dark, bottomless pit.

In his dream, he’s Peter Quinn again.

He steps out of the black SUV, armored windshield shredded by bullets. It’s parked sideways, blocking the road, front bumper touching the side of a gilded, horse-drawn carriage.

A woman stands a few feet away, wearing a glittery gown embroidered by delicate flowers, glowing wand in one hand and a pair of glass slippers in the palm of the other.

The carriage door is open, waiting; somehow he knows it’s for him; and he knows he’s ready. But as soon as he starts to climb in, he’s stopped by a voice. It seems to be coming from the woman, except it’s no woman’s voice: it’s brusque, almost metallic, screeching. Digitally distorted. She hands him the slippers, smiling knowingly as she says, “Remember, not a minute past midnight.”

He wakes up with a jolt. The place is dark. He’s sprawled on the floor, Willow snuggled next to his chest.

He does his best to sit up slowly, quietly, so not to disturb her, but he’s clumsy, disoriented, left arm and leg stiffer than usual. Willow stirs with a soft whimper, and he stays by her side a bit longer, gently stroking her back to sleep. She needs her rest; there’s a long road ahead of them tomorrow.

For a while he lies in the dark, flat on his back, eyes wide open, unfocused and blank.

His mind still treading the thin line separating reality from the dream, he thinks about the carriage, and the glass slippers, and the digitally distorted voice.

He thinks about this life: custom-made, carefully tuned, skillfully tailored to fit no one but him... and now thoroughly fucked-up like everything he’s ever touched.

He thinks about the warning.

Because he _had_ been warned. More than once.

But he got too comfortable, sloppy, careless, dancing on at the ball where he didn’t belong. He forgot everything he’d been told. And now, the magic is gone, it’s way past midnight, and he’s once again covered in the ashes of the funeral pyre of yet another broken dream.

He thinks about calling Max, telling him everything, telling him he’s coming back and that there’s no talking him out of it; not this time. 

Or maybe there’s a small part of him that wants - needs, hopes for - exactly that: somebody talking some sense into him, telling him it’ll all work out, reminding him that he has nothing to go back _to,_ never had.

He’s been wanting to call Max for so long… and now he’s shuddering at the thought that he may be too late.

It’s been three and a half years.

Shit happened.

No. Not just shit. _Shitloads_ of shit have happened. The world’s gone - quite literally - berzerk. And almost down the crapper.

He wasn’t there. For any of them. Not in early 2019 with everything that went down in Afghanistan and the Middle East, nor later, in 2020, during the covid19 pandemic.

People died. A lot of people. He knew some who died in _this_ life. His “mother”, for one. Another veteran in his PT group: a guy who survived a road bomb in Iraq only to suffocate to death three years later on a folding bed in a makeshift field hospital in downtown Philly.

He has no idea what happened to Max. He doesn’t know what’s become of Carrie, Franny, Dar, and Saul, either. He’s not even sure they still live.

Three and a half years ago he walked away and never looked back.

Abandoned them to their fates. All of them.

And for what?

_“How’s this different, Johnny? Tell me! All these people who cared about you, loved you… and you just walked away. Left them believing you died. To grieve for you. Mourn you. How’s this any different than what you did to **us** eleven years ago? And now you come to me and you tell me that you’ve changed? That this time it’s different? That if I let you into your son’s life you’ll never walk out on him again? You’ve been running away your entire life, Johnny, walking out at the first sign of trouble from everything and everyone you’ve ever cared about. It’s just a matter of time before you pack up and run again. And you know it.”_

He didn’t know what to say to that a little over two years ago. He sure as hell doesn’t know now.

Except…

_You were right._

_Jule._

_You were fucking right._

_You were right to leave me before the baby was born._

_You were right to tell me to fuck off every time I tried to claw my way back into his life. Both your lives._

_I should’ve listened._

_I should’ve left. You. Johnny. Everything._

_I should’ve gone back. To the only life I know how to live. The only person I know how to be._

_You were right._

_I was never cut out for this._

_Normal life. Normal love. Is for normal people._

_I should’ve hit reset._

` _sudo rm -rf --no-preserve-root /* …_ `

_...or something_

_Two years ago. After that night at the bar. After everything you said. I shouldn't have reported a potentially compromised cover. I should’ve packed up and left. Like you asked me to. Begged me to._

_I should’ve let you be. Both of you._

_But I didn’t._

_Because I was selfish._

_And now it’s too late._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NS - my friend, my lighthouse, my constant, my incredible source of support and inspiration - thank you!
> 
> Hidingupatreeorsomething - thank you for the unfaltering stream of appreciation and support during these uncertain times: it means the world.
> 
> Everyone else - stay safe, and thank you for still being here.


	3. The Puzzle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a while, I know. But some stories are meant to be finished, I guess.

The day starts off stained by yesterday. The harder he tries to push it away, the harder it pushes back. When he does cave in and lets his mind wander, it’s in slow motion, jerky and grainy, like poorly cut clippings of black-and-white footage, like a week-old dream. 

He keeps busy, focused, determined: finishes packing, pays the bills, retrieves his security deposit, and makes two trips to the charity down the street that’s been chosen to inherit all of his Earthly possessions that didn’t fit in the 22”x14” duffel.

He briefly considered dropping it off where he used to work, at the CPS emergency shelter - God knows they could use all the t-shirts and jeans they can get. But after the events of last night and his subsequent one-day notice, showing his face - even with the best of intentions - didn’t feel right.

It wasn’t the easiest conversation this morning. They weren’t particularly thrilled he was leaving, but then again, they weren’t exactly going out on a limb to keep him on board, either. He can’t say he blames them. He’d been warned, multiple times, asked nicely, then not so nicely, to stand down, let the police do their job. 

“You can’t save them all,” they said.

For anyone who’s been with the CPS long enough, a runaway fifteen-year-old is another day at the office. For him, it meant watching another kid head down that same road the end of which he knows all too well.

Shelly Ashton wasn’t the first teen to have run away from the shelter; and she won’t be the last. In the two years he’s worked at the shelter he’s filed more “missing person” reports than he cares to remember. 

They said, if not apprehended within six to twelve months, most runaways involved with drugs or sex trafficing would sooner or later turn up dead. 

“With these kids," they said, "you should always expect the worst."

He admits, he may not be as hard-boiled in runaway statistics, but in _his_ experience, where these kids are heading, turning up dead may not be the worst. 

Did he really think he could change the outcome? He, of all people, did he truly believe she could beat those odds? Was it giving her a fighting chance he had hoped to achieve by taking the matters into his own hands, turning the desks of every CPS official in the district, involving Julia? Or was it his own peace of mind, his own solace, in the face of what deep down he had known to be inevitable from day one?

He had the answer staring him square in the face yesterday night as he watched the Medical Examiner fasten evidence bags onto Shelly’s motionless wrists. And even then, as her battered body was placed in a black plastic bag, there was still a small, stubborn part of him that refused to accept that he couldn’t have done more; or tried harder.

  
  
  
  


There is a proper term for it, one he can vaguely recall from his Farm training - _post-op media survey_ . In the Group, they just called it the _clean-up window,_ the few hours it would take for the news of the operation to have reached full spin. Back in the day, when he first started, the post-op media survey used to be his job. After each mission, as the Group awaited further instructions, he’d bury himself in local newspapers, online news servers, blogs, posts, tweets, and status updates, following the headlines down the rabbit hole of rumors, misinformation, and half-truths.

Of course, back then, he’d do all that to make sure they didn’t need to go back for damage control, hence the _‘clean-up window’_. Why he found himself scouring the homepage of the Philadelphia Inquirer website yesterday morning is anyone’s guess. 

Yet there he was, having just returned from the crime scene, numb and shaking, tumbling down the rabbit hole all the same.

**5:23AM**  
_‘TWO DEAD, THREE WOUNDED IN WAREHOUSE SHOOTING TONIGHT’_

**7:16AM** _  
_ _‘OFFICER-INVOLVED SHOOTING FORCES POLICE REOPEN YEAR-OLD MISSING PERSON INVESTIGATION’_

**8:15AM** _  
_ _‘MOTHER OF THREE AND TEENAGE GIRL LOSE THEIR LIVES IN RESCUE ATTEMPT GONE WRONG: COULD THE TRAGEDY HAVE BEEN PREVENTED?’_

**8:42AM** **  
** _‘PHILADELPHIA PD MOURNS LOSS OF THEIR OWN. COMMISSIONER O’ROURKE PROMISES SWIFT JUSTICE.’_

**10:23AM** **  
** _‘EXCLUSIVE: UNDERCOVER OPERATION TO TAKE DOWN HUMAN TRAFFICKING RING POSSIBLY COMPROMISED DURING LAST NIGHT’S SHOOTING.’_

**12:15PM** **  
** _‘FAMILIES NOTIFIED. NAMES OF VICTIMS OFFICIALLY RELEASED’_

It didn’t take long after that.

After the messages - terse condolences followed by heartfelt one-liners followed by cautious inquiries followed by increasingly alarmed expressions of concern - came the phone calls. 

He could’ve ignored them all. 

He’s done this before, many times: fucked up, moved out, moved on. It was never easy. But then again, it was never _too_ hard.

He could’ve just left, cut and run, ditch his phone, get the hell out of here, await termination instructions in some grubby motel - wouldn’t be the first time. But there were things. Things he could’ve skipped, maybe. But, for once in his life, he wanted - needed - to do this right.

  
  
  
  


He doesn’t remember much of his early years, never cared to. For the most part, it was an endless procession of foster homes and group shelters: people, names, faces that have long since blended together. But there was one time, one house, one long winter that stood out.

It was right after Christmas break. He remembers feeling constantly tired and cold, more so than usual.

“Could be mono,” hypothesized the smiling man in a crisp white-coat at the walk-in clinic where his foster mom finally took him after the third time he’d been sent home from school. “Could be nothing. But I’m sure a couple of days at home snuggled with a cup of hot cocoa won’t hurt,” the man added with a cheerful wink. “Am I right?”

He wouldn’t know. In that house, fostering three, four, five kids at a time, there was no cup of cocoa unless you could reach the top cupboard and make it yourself, nor was there a quilt warm enough he could snuggle under. Seeing as both his foster parents had to work and the rest of the kids started school already, he ended up spending the rest of that week home alone.

The TV in the living room had only one working channel, and, aside from an old cooking book and a couple of porn magazines under the toilet tank, there was nothing to read, either. He’d spend his days wandering aimlessly from one empty room to another, looking for something to pass the time.

Which was how he eventually found it - under a pile of dusty toys in the attic - an old, scrunched up paper bag full of perfectly shaped, perfectly new, perfectly colorful puzzle pieces… with no box… or _boxes,_ plural, as he couldn’t even be sure all of the pieces came from the same one. He’d turned the place upside down, all in vain - he was stuck with a zillion-piece jigsaw puzzle and no box to show him what the final picture was meant to look like.

Three years ago, when his identity training was over and he was finally given the green light, that’s what starting this life felt like: like having a bunch of perfectly shaped puzzle pieces with no way of knowing how - if at all - they were destined to fit together in the end.

There were many pieces, all solid, all useful, all potentially fitting somewhere - tools he’d been told _how_ to use and for what purpose, leaving the _when_ and whether to use them _at all_ up to him.

By the time his papers were “out of the oven”, he already had a full service record, detailed documentation of his “injury”, a bible-thick medical file, and a government pension. He had a highschool diploma, an average-minus GPA, one “last address” and two “prior employments”, all verifiable, with people on the other side of the line - _and_ on site - who could provide character references. There was even a “record” of him being in foster care between the ages of four and fifteen. And, if you looked closer, there was a trail you could trace to a very real, very discrete, and very efficient PI firm in Williamsport that presumably assisted him earlier that year in finding his birth mother.

Obviously, Laura Hayes wasn’t his _real_ birth mother.

She was a 59 year old rehabilitated drug addict whose real son, a boy named Noah, was removed from her custody pending charges of child endangerment following a drug bust. Noah - four years old at the time - was later adopted and had his name changed. 

He never looked for his mother, nor she for him. She served time, cleaned up her act, got married, and went on with her life. So she had no way of knowing that at the age of twenty five, barely out of med school, Noah died of a ruptured brain aneurysm. And she never will now, seeing as for the last seven years of her life she’d been residing in an assisted living facility, where she was placed by her family when her Alzheimer’s had become too much of a challenge to manage at home. 

During his training, he was advised to make contact and build a routine. He wasn’t going to. At first. As far as he was concerned, the key to a solid, long-lasting cover ID was first and foremost keeping it small and simple - as little detail as possible. Laura Heyes had two “other” sons from her late husband, not to mention their wives and children, first cousins, second cousins, in-laws - long story short: covert operative’s worst nightmare.

To this day he’s uncertain whether it was sheer curiosity that eventually drove him to make contact, or was it something else, something deeper, a need, decades-old longing for what he could barely remember having at all.

Before Laura died of pneumonia in March, he used to visit her every Sunday. They’d sit in the little garden and drink tea with jelly cookies, chatting about his work, his therapy, her late husband, her children and grandchildren, anything she’d be able to piece together that day from worn-out strands of decaying memory. 

On rare occasions she would recognize him right away; most of the time - not. So, he would usually start by introducing himself all over again, telling her a little about his life, his years in the service, his injury. It was good practice, both for his speech and his cover proficiency. It would take her a while, but, eventually, it always happened, and it always happened the same way: her eyes would soften, then well up, a flicker of hope burning higher and hotter. And then she’d have it. She would look at him and she’d know: it’s him, her Noah, the little boy she last saw being carried away in the arms of a CPS worker all those years ago.

Laura’s family - her two “other” sons and their wives and children - all live in Blue Bell, around eight miles north-west of Philly. He fully expected to be put through the wringer, quizzed and questioned, dragged from lawyer to lawyer, asked to submit to a DNA testing, maybe - all of the things he imagined a normal person would do were a total stranger to waltz into their life claiming to be their long lost brother.

“You won’t be,” the Fairy Godmother assured him when he’d expressed his concerns at the end of the “family” briefing. “And if you do… you’ll pass.”

At that point he’d seen too much of his handler’s work to question the latter. It was the former that had him stumped.

“Have you ever recruited an asset, Peter?” A rather rhetorical question, the answer to which they both knew. “Then you know that it’s not not just about picking the people with access to information or proximity to your target. You need to _feel_ them. What they’re capable of. Where their heart is. This - what I do - is no different. I match people with situations. Dozens of women in the tri-state area are like Laura Hayes. Hundreds, maybe. I could’ve matched you with any of them. I chose Laura, for no small part, because of her family, her sons, the kinda people they are. So when I tell you that Jamie and Aidan Donovan won’t question a decorated veteran seeking his birth mother after a life-altering injury, it’s because I know they won’t.”

And so they didn’t. 

Jamie and Aidan Donovan turned out to be two of the most decent, kind, hardworking, salt-of-the-Earth soccer dads he’d ever met. Not that he’d met many of those, of course, but he sure as hell had dealt with enough scum in his day to be able to spot a straight shooter when one headed his way.

He was often invited to barbecues, Birthday parties, and holiday dinners - genuine gestures of kindness and hospitality that, combined with occasional present and door-to-door homemade bread delivery, were becoming increasingly hard to decline. Luckily, when it came to providing him with an unfaltering stream of the world’s most unimpeachable excuses, his work at the shelter was nothing short of a godsend. 

He’d been doing just fine avoiding his new “family” gatherings up until the Christmas Eve of 2018, when Aidan, the youngest of his “half-brothers”, laden with gifts, shopping bags, and tupperware boxes, just showed at his door. 

“Hey, Noah,” he said with a shy smile, looking genuinely apologetic. “Sorry to drop in on you like this, man. Amber said you can’t make it tonight. And that’s fine. But...” He looked down to his right at the sandy-haired pigtailed four-year-old holding his hand. “Since you couldn’t make it, Casey here insisted we come and give you your presents anyway.”

He had never met Casey - or any of his other “nieces” and “nephews” - before that day. 

“Are you my uncle Noah?” she asked, cocking her head and sizing him up with a curious look.

He crouched down carefully - left leg still stiff after that morning’s PT session - and, with a lopsided smirk, gave her a small nod. “Guess I am.”

Clumsily fussing with a pile of boxes, she shook his hand. It seemed like she had a whole speech prepared, but, suddenly, her jaw dropped and her eyes widened. “And who’s _that?!?!”_

He didn’t have to turn around and follow her stunned gaze. “That’s Willow,” he smiled. “She’s very nice. Wanna say hello?”

A bouncing-pigtails-ecstatic bobbing of head followed. He turned to Willow who immediately stopped panting and trained her eyes on his face. A slight nod, and, rising swiftly, she stepped from behind his back to sit next to him, sweeping the doorstep with a lavishly long-haired tail. 

“Hi, Willow,” Casey mouthed, hypnotized, and let out a loud shriek as Willow obediently raised her left paw (a trait that Andy - his PT, running couch, and drinking buddy - finds rather amusing, never failing to wisecrack how his service dog seems to get the importance of utilizing the left side better than he does).

With a double pat on the dog’s back - _free to play_ \- they both rose to their feet: Willow - excitedly leaping to slobber her new friend’s face, Quinn - turning his attention back to Aidan.

“Wow, she’s a beauty. Golden Retriever, right?” As Quinn nodded a ‘yes’, Aidan leaned down, running a hand over Willow’s shimmering coat. “Amber wanted to take one. Last year. They’re supposed to be great with kids. But we want Casey to be old enough to take on some of the responsibilities, you know? Maybe next summer.” 

Quinn pointedly raised eyebrows at the squealing and squirming tangle of arms and paws at their feet. “May not be up to you anymore.”

Aidan snorted. “You don’t say.”

There was a pause, a long moment of silence occasionally interrupted by bursts of whimpers and squeaks. Then Quinn remembered himself, shifting his eyes to the now unattended pile of boxes on the hallway floor a few feet away.

“This is…” He shook his head. “You shouldn’t have. Thank you.”

“Hey, it’s nothing. Some food, a little something from each of us. No biggie. It’s Christmas, no? And you’re family.”

On top of the pile, strapped to a neatly wrapped box with a seasonably green-and-red ribbon, lay a big, colorful crayon drawing. 

“Casey made it in preschool,” Aidan explained with a smile. “When we told her… about _you…_ she wouldn’t shut up in class. Went on and on about her new uncle who came back from the war… So Miss Grace - her preschool teacher - suggested she make a present for you.”

Framed by an elaborately full rainbow, a tall figure in khaki armed with what he reckoned to be a rifle stood in the midst of a green battlefield littered with fallen enemies, _‘Get well soon, uncle Noah’_ scribbled across the sky. 

His throat tightened. “Wow.”

“Right?” Aidan proudly placed a hand over his girl’s head. “Quite an imagination on this one.”

Taking it as her cue, both arms around Willow's neck, Casey looked up. “Uncle Noah? Why can’t you come over for Christmas?”

Aidan’s face flushed bright red down to his sweater collar. “Casey! What did we _just_ talk about? Your uncle is busy helping the children that need him.” Shifting a shamefaced look back to Quinn, “Sorry. We talked to her, Amber and I. Explained about your work. But you know… kids.”

Quinn looked down, feeling his heart flutter at the sight of two pairs of imploring eyes. “Um… you know what? Lemme see if I can switch. It’s a short notice, but I can give it a shot.”

Filling the air with ear-piercing shrieks, Casey lunged at him, joined by Willow who may not have known what the commotion was all about but wouldn’t pass on a once-in-a-lifetime long-denied opportunity to jump-hug her master. “Can Willow come too? Please-please-please???”

He crouched down again, smiling. “Well, guess what? You’re in luck. Because Willow’s a service dog. So, where I go, she goes.”

That earned him a skeptical look. “You’re not _blind.”_

“Well… no, I’m not. But…” He picked up her drawing. “See how you wished for me to get well? Thank you, by the way, it’s the most beautiful drawing anyone’s _ever_ made for me.” She nodded, beaming. “So, you know I was hurt. And Willow here… she helps me. When I need it.”

“Liiiike… fetching your shoes if your arm doesn’t work?”

“You’d _think,”_ he laughed, wryly side-eyeing Willow who, knowing _exactly_ what he meant about shoes - aka last week’s _‘fetch the shoes vs chew up the 200-dollar orthotics’_ mishap - ashamedly dropped her ears.

And so it was settled. He switched his shift, did some last minute gift-shopping, shaved and showered, threw on his best pair of jeans and the least wrinkled button-down, muttered _“Fuck me”_ as he sized himself up in the murky mirror, then once again, taking in the aberrant sight of the shopping bags in the trank of his car, and drove to Blue Bell.

He’s often wondered if that day, that Christmas, was when his life really started. Not just _this_ life, the elaborately arcane story of Noah Hayes, but _his_ life, the kind he imagined he would surely have one day back when he was still too short to fetch the cocoa powder from the top cupboard shelf.

He’s never refused an invitation again. And the reason for that wasn’t just Aidan, whom he’s grown to love more than he could ever imagine loving his own baby brother, or Casey, whom he adored from day one, or any of his other “nieces” and “nephews”. It was Jamie, James Desmond Donovan - a father of two, resident pediatrician at the local HMO clinic, bone-dry Trekkie and MotoGP enthusiast, the oldest of his two younger "brothers", and, coincidentally, the best friend he’s ever had.

  
  
  


Yesterday, it was the message from Jamie that hit him first and hit him the hardest, long before the rest of the hell broke loose.

_-Were you there?_

Yes. 

He was.

He was too late. But he _was_ there. Just in time to watch both their bodies loaded into a black, windowless van: the girl he’d refused to give up on, and the woman he once loved and had now killed. 

_Were you there?_

…was what _she_ used to ask. Once, all those years ago when he still had a home to come back to after his missions, when carrying them out used to fill him with pride and a sense of purpose, when he could still laugh and dream and hope. 

He’d be back Stateside. Just. They’d be splayed on her couch, limbs tangled, bellies full, heads buzzing, clothes and empty beer bottles strewn about. She’d be curled in his arms, aimlessly flipping through news channels. He’d be spent and drowsy and soft. And hollow, mostly hollow, but grateful - grateful for the dizzying buzz and the scent of her hair for blurring the images from wherever he’d been, even if just for the time being.

“Oh my God, Johnny! Did you see that?” she’d exclaim when the screen would fill with mind-bending horrors from some dismal shithole deep in the Middle East. And that’s when she’d ask, half-turned in his arms, eyes soft and sad on his pain-riddled face, never really expecting an answer: “Were you there?”

He could never tell her, of course, not in so many words. He always figured she knew - knew what he did, knew enough, knew something. Knew that on most such days, the answer was yes, he was. Because when was he not… _there?_ There where the air is thick with the stench of blood, and sweat, and smoke, and gunpowder? _There..._ half-way across the world, at the heart of a warzone… or just half-way across town, on the helpless side of the yellow police tape.

He hadn’t replied to Jamie until much, much later yesterday night.

_-Yeah, I was. Got a call around 4am. About Shelly. Found out about Jules on site_

_-Jesus_ ...and, a moment later… _-You ok?_ ...and two moments later… _-Sorry, dumb question_

He smiled.

 _-I’m fine_ ...then rubbed his face, thought about it some more… _-Not really_...and some more… _-Thanks for calling off the cavalry_

…the cavalry being Aidan, his wife Amber, and Jamie’s wife Natali, whose increasingly frantic phone calls and messages had mysteriously ceased in the late afternoon. 

_-Hey, what are brothers for?_

Quinn shook his head.

_-Not this_

_-This too_

_-Thanks_

_-_ _No worries. Get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow. Ok to drop by after work?_

By the time Jamie would finish work at the clinic he would be long gone.

_-Sure_

_-Alright. See you then_ _..._ and a moment later… _-You going to the memorial?_

He swallowed. Breathed through it. 

_-No_

_-I think I’ll go. Maybe. That ok?_

He closed his eyes. Wondering how it happened, _when_ it happened - his old life bleeding into his new one, and vice versa. 

Buzz.

_-Noah?_

He blinked. Cleared his throat. Typed.

_-You don’t have to ask. She was your friend, same as mine_

It took a long minute. 

_-It wasn’t your fault. You know that, right?_

A gulp.

_-Thanks_

_-Say it_

_-It’s late. I’ll see you tomorrow_

_-Say it_

_-Fuck off_

_-Fine. I’ll say it. I’ll say it every day if I have to. It wasn't your fault, Noah. None of it. And if Jule were here, she would be the first one to tell you as much_

But she isn’t, is she, he thought. Because she’s gone. Because he couldn’t stay away when she asked him to, begged him to. Because she cared. After everything he’d put her through - she still cared. And when he’d reached the end of the rope, he used it. Used _her._ Same as others used him.

_-Night Jamie_

_-It wasn't your fault_

_-*rolling eyes emoji* NIGHT_

  
  
  


He didn’t need a picture on the box to know that his “new” family and his “old” one didn’t belong in the same puzzle. They weren’t _supposed_ to fit together. Yet somehow, somewhere along the way, they have. 

Obviously, after nearly blowing his cover, Julia had to be told the truth. The _whole_ truth. Including who Jamie and Aidan were. That is to say, who they _weren’t._

Aidan knew _of_ Julia. Or rather he knew the “official version” - Julia was a cop who worked on a case involving one of the kids from the shelter; they stayed in touch, had occasional coffee; the end. 

Jamie, on the other hand, had actually met Julia, more than once. And, in his maddeningly unabashed and disarming manner, had charmed his way into her graces right from the start.

He still doesn’t remember how it happened; or when. He knows it was Tuesday, that’s for sure. Because he and Jamie were on their way out of Talula’s Garden after their weekly - every Tuesday like clockwork - _“brotherly lunch date”._ They bumped into Julia and her partner who just _“happened”_ to be on their way in for a bite, a sheer _“coincidence”_ which, knowing Julia, he never _really_ bought. Eyebrows were raised, hands shaken, questions asked and - somewhat truthfully - answered. The rest is history. Because one moment, the master of small talk that he is, he was chatting up Julia’s partner, and the next - his fake brother and his pain-in-the-ass ex-girlfriend were exchanging phone numbers. Within days they were tagging each other on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, by the end of the week - exchanging favorite recipes and kids’ school performance recordings, and within less than a month - planning a joint family getaway to Julia’s husband’s family’s cabin on Deep Creek.

“She’s trouble, you know,” Jamie once noted with a wicked smile during one of their lunch dates.

Straining to swallow a half-masticated chunk of his steak, Quinn managed to keep a straight face, just barely. “What do you mean?”

“She’s married. And you’re smitten. Is what I mean.”

“She’s _happily_ married. And I’m fine,” Quinn half-lied. 

And they left it at that.

Jamie never found out who Julia really was, nor does he know that the lean, blue-eyed boy with a coy, dimpled smile on her family photos is _sort of_ of his “nephew”. There were times when Quinn wanted to tell him, tell everyone, shout it to the sky if he could. Jamie would show him a video he would’ve just gotten from Julia of Johnny in front of a mirror, practicing his points for the upcoming Debate competition. That boy is good, Jamie would say, just look at that posture, how he never looks at his notes, how his voice never falters. That boy is my son, Quinn would think, wondering if relaxing his shoulders would improve Johnny’s stance even further, if the second point could be made shorter, the fifth added to the fourth because together they would’ve packed more punch, and the seventh dropped altogether. 

They will never know now. That despite Julia being indeed happily married to another man, and despite Jamie being his “fake” brother, the few months he’d spent with the two of them fitting around him as if they weren’t pieces from different puzzles, was the most family he'd ever had.

  
  
  
  


He messaged Jamie again early this morning. He thought about asking if they could meet, have one last lunch at Talula’s, walk a little outside, maybe. It’s one of those last sunny days of November, breezy and warm, just before the long and moody Pennsylvania winter fully asserts itself. It’s not Tuesday, but he knew if he’d asked, Jamie would move heaven and Earth to make it happen. 

He wanted to say goodbye, not in so many words, maybe, but, for a change, face to face.

There were so many things he wanted to say, but in the end...

 _-I’m going away for a while_ ...he typed, feeling as low as a sleazy scum on a stale pond.

The reply didn’t take more than a few seconds.

_-Ok_

_-May be out of reach. Need some time_

_-Sure. Some time away, alone. Do you good_

_-Yeah_

_-I’ll tell the gang_

_-Thanks_

_-You know how long?_

He does.

_-Not really_

_-Gotcha_

_-Sorry_

_-Hey. Don’t_

He wanted to stab at the home button, open the dialer, and call. 

There were so many things he wanted to do, and say, but in the end...

 _-Jamie_ ...he typed.

_-?_

_-Thank you_

_-Hey, what are brothers for? *winking emoji*_

He wouldn’t know, he wanted to say. 

He wanted to tell Jamie that, while he didn’t _choose_ him to be his brother, he couldn’t have asked for a better one. That three and a half years ago he was given a chance to become a new man, a _better_ man he had hoped, a man with a new name, new face, new family. But that even this new life couldn’t change the man he’d always been - a coward, who wouldn’t think twice before throwing himself in the line of fire, but who’d rather cut and run than come up with the courage to tell the people he loved what they really meant to him.

He wanted to tell Jamie the truth. The whole truth. He wanted to tell him he wasn’t born Noah Hayes, nor was he born Peter Quinn, or Davis Exley, or Adam Halloway, or any of the names he’d used over the years. He was born John, same as his son, same as… no, not his father whom he’d never met and whom his mother had never mentioned… same as John Lennon, of all people - his mother’s idol, one of the few things he still remembers about her.

He wanted to tell him that, while he may not remember _much_ of his early years, he does remember his mother: her fierce, blue, dark-speckled eyes, her stubbornly set jaw, her long, wavy hair, and her sad, dimpled smile.

He wanted to tell him his mother was Shelly’s age when she had him, a little over fifteen years old. 

They lived in a youth shelter, where, seven-months pregnant, his mother was brought after her own mother was taken to the hospital with a broken skull and her step-father went to jail for putting her there. The same youth shelter from which his mother had run away with a man named Burke, who smelled like beer, and who had a big, toothy smile, a deep, throaty laugh, and a dirty house with a secret room.

“It’s just for the time being,” his mother whispered to him every night as they’d huddle together in his bedroom. “We’ll be alright. Just need a little time is all. You and I, we’ll be alright.”

“You’re a gift, Johnny,” she used to tell him with that big, sad smile of hers. “All kids are. And you’re mine. My biggest gift and my greatest joy is what you are.” 

He was four years old when, kicking and screaming, his mother was taken away.

He remembers the wail of sirens, tyres screeching, megaphones booming as they ran and ran, as hard as they could, until another police car had blocked their way.

“Cathleen Galalgher, you’re under arrest for the murder of Burke Dunham.”

Cathleen Galagher was his mother’s name, and that day, that policeman’s words, is how he remembers. Burke Dunham was the name of the man she killed in a secret room that was always too cold because he was never allowed to wear any clothes, and that had a big camera in the middle, two weird-looking umbrellas, bright flashing lights, and a single couch.

“He will never hurt you again,” his mother promised on the day the secret room’s white wall had red smudges and the stale air, instead of smoke, smelled of metal.

It was weird, he thought, as they ran past Burke who was slumped on the floor, following them with unblinking eyes, because Burke had _never_ hurt him. He was always kind, telling him jokes, and sneaking him candy at dinner time. They’d go into the secret room once or twice every day, but all he had to do was stand in the middle, or sit on the couch, or lie down. Sometimes he had to pretend he was sad or make a scared face for the camera, but mostly he just had to smile.

He wanted to tell Jamie that it had taken him years to understand what his mother had saved him from, long after the images of that day and Burke’s glazed over eyes had faded away. That he had never stopped looking for her, and that, like Shelly, he kept running away and getting in trouble, until another man entered his life, a man who was also kind and who saw his potential and who thought he was destined for greater things.

“You’re my guy,” that man used to tell him, and, before long, in all ways that mattered, he really was.

He wanted to tell Jamie why he did what he did, and why he was going away.

There were so many things he wanted to say to so many people, people he’d loved, people he'd hurt, people he thought he could save and those he had left behind...

...but, in the end - because some things not even the best of identity craftsmen can fix...

...when it mattered the most...

...he never could .


	4. Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He leaned closer, too close, the tick in his jaw getting stronger, lungs burning. “Fuck… _you.”_
> 
> “Right,” she laughed. “That’s right, Noah. Fuck me. Fuck this. Fuck that. Fuck everything you’ve worked off your ass to accomplish these past three years. Fuck finding your family, fuck making friends, fuck getting a job, fuck keeping it. Fuck all of it. All of _us._ You’re done. You’re _out.”_

His last order of business was going to see Kim. 

He’d hoped to get it over and done with in the morning, but the only window she had for an unscheduled session was in the late afternoon. He could’ve called, or emailed, or messaged, of course. At the very least, he could’ve had the decency to pick up the phone when she tried to reach him. But he waited until the last possible moment. Mainly because while his “family” could  _ maybe _ be persuaded to give him some space (as opposed to, say, turning up on his doorstep just to make sure he wasn’t swinging from a rope tied to a ceiling  beam ), he had little doubt that Army Reserves Major Dr Kimberly Mitchel would have no such reservations.

It was touch and go for a while, even this morning. After his text conversation with Jamie, all he wanted to do was get in his car and drive away, watch this place fall behind in the rearview mirror, this life - everything about it - disappear, like a heat-stroke-induced hallucination in the desert.

To kill time, for several hours he just wandered around, gaping at window displays, before finally settling on one of the benches in the small park behind the Crescenz VA complex. He sat there, contemplating his next move and mentally mapping the stops he’d have to make on his way to the pick-up location, until it was time to go in. Then, with a heavy heart and lead-filled legs, he pushed himself off the bench and made his way to the third floor of the main compound.

He hadn’t said much from the moment he sat down, and neither did she. He knew that she knew, and she knew that he knew it. He’d always found it both comforting and infuriating, her capacity to just  _ be, _ to know when it’s time to stop pushing and let go, allow for the vacuum of silence to do its job.

“Where will you go?” she asked at last, when the session was almost over.

He shook his head. “Dunno.”

“Back?”

“Maybe.”

_ “Back”  _ was their code word. For all those things of which he could never talk and of which she could never ask him.  _ “Back” _ where “ _ it” _ happened, that which she had to assume and piece together and which they both knew he could never truly escape.

“You tell anyone? The family?”

“Jamie.”

“Not Aidan?”

“No. Aidan’s… Jamie will tell him.”

“That’s… convenient.”

In retrospect, this should’ve been his first clue. From the moment he sat down he could see there was something different about her: she seemed quiet, subdued somehow, disengaged, almost absent at times. Preoccupied with his own troubles, he hadn’t given it much thought, but there was something in her tone now that made him wonder. Kim may have never been one for flannerling, but snarky and cynical just wasn’t her thing.

“You tell Jamie you’re never coming back?” she asked. He arched an eyebrow:  _ Really? _ She chuckled. “Thought so. So, tell me, Noah, what do you think Jamie and Aidan will do in a month, three months, a year… when you don’t come back?”

Aidan? Probably make some phone calls, knock on some doors, look for answers. He’ll be heartbroken, angry, maybe. But eventually it’ll pass. Jamie, on the other hand? Jamie will leave no stone unturned. He won’t find him. But he will never stop looking. 

“I dunno.”

Kim squinted, tipping her head. “You sure?” 

Since it wasn’t  _ really _ a question, not a question he was going to answer, anyway, he leaned forward, motioning to stand up and slapping his thighs. “I should go. Just came to…”

“Now, that’s a good question, isn’t it, Noah?” she interrupted, crossing her legs. “Why  _ did _ you come? I've been leaving messages and trying to call you ever since I heard about Shelly. Then all of a sudden this morning you call to schedule an emergency session. We’ve been sitting here for…” glancing at her watch, “...forty five minutes. You’ve made it clear you don’t want to talk about Shelly, or what happened the other night. So, I’m wondering... what  _ did _ you come here to talk about?”

Three years of therapy is a long time. Three years of therapy with a seasoned board-certified post-trauma specialist who also happens to be a retired INSCOM interrogator was about three-years-minus-a-week longer than she needed to uncover every single one of his buttons, and to learn which one to push and when. It was a game they played, a game he’d grown rather fond of, and in which he had zero desire to engage today.

“I’ve come to say goodbye.”

Kim folded her arms on her chest. “Did you now?”

“Yeah, I did.. And to thank you.”

She eyed him with that volatile mixture of incredulity and defiance he’d learnt to be an equivalent of plastic explosives placed strategically under Pandora’s Box padlock. “A goodbye  _ and _ a thank you. Wow. Lucky me.”

He frowned. He’d  _ never  _ seen her like this. Over the years she’d used various tactics in order to unsettle him enough to engage him, but this - the chisel-hard edges of her thin smile, her sharp, contemptuous stare, the mocking undertones in her voice - it felt different, angry, berating.

Disregarding her outburst and realizing he was probably about to cross a shitload of lines, he asked anyway. “You ok, Dr Mitchel?” 

“Dandy,” she spat without missing a step. “And don’t change the subject.”

He fell back in his chair, which squeaked, causing Willow to jerk in her sleep and raise her head with concern. 

“I don’t think even your service dog is buying this shit, Noah,” Kim pointed out.

“Hey, you leave her out of this.”

He said this with half a smirk, but even if he  _ was  _ under the illusion that his lighthearted tone was going to get him a pass, it didn’t last long. 

“Why did you come here, Noah?” Kim asked again, deadpan. “Just tell me. And you can go.”

Something told him this reassurance was not unlike an invitation to crawl inside a tiger's mouth and get comfortable. He drew a breath as if to say something, then wheezed it out, drew another one, and, in the end, deflated with a nosy hiss.

“I’ve come to say goodbye,” he hurled, snappier than intended. “I didn’t want to. And maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe I  _ should’ve _ just texted. But I thought that after three years of therapy…” He cleared his throat. “After everything you’ve done for me… I thought I owed you this much.”

“Interesting.” She shifted sideways in her chair, propping her chin on her palm. And,  _ boy, _ did he know that  _ that _ meant. “Just… out of curiosity, did you go to see Jamie in person too or did you just send him a vague text about, say, needing to go away for a while after what happened?”

He managed to keep a straight face, but just barely. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“Just… humor me. For old time’s sake.”

There were about half a dozen comebacks on the tip of his tongue, none of which would answer her question, nor were they particularly civil. He picked up his bag, throwing the strap over his shoulder. “I have to go.”

“So, no.”

“So none of your fucking business.”  _ So much for being civil and keeping a straight face. _

“Ah!” She spread her arms.  _ “There’s _ my boy.  _ Now _ we’re getting somewhere.”

Any other day, this would’ve been just the beginning. Bringing him to the brink of punching a hole in the wall was Kim’s bread and butter. Where other therapists would try to gently nudge their patients out of their comfort zone, Kim’s tactics were an equivalent of a heat-seeking missile, butting him so  _ far _ from his comfort zone it would take him days to grope his way back from the land she affectionately pet-named  _ “The Sovereign Nations of Bullshit-Free”. _

He stood up, fully intending to leave, and so did she. 

“For what it’s worth,” he started, forcing a thin smile, “I _ have _ come to say goodbye.”

“You know what I think?” Boy, did he not, and, boy, was he not sure he wanted to find out. “Bullshit,” she hissed, stepping into his personal space and driving each syllable into his sternum with the tip of her finger.  _ “BULL… SHIT.  _ You didn’t  _ have _ to come. You didn’t even have to email. If you  _ wanted _ to go, you’d be gone by now, and I’ll just go out on a limb and guess that it wouldn’t be the first time. The only reason you’re here is because you want me to tell you  _ not to.” _

For a long moment he just glared, breath baited, a muscle in his jaw beginning to twitch. But then, letting the anger funnel out with a mirthless chuckle, he shook his head. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Pfft… Obviously. Because, silly me, this whole time I’ve been laboring under the misapprehension that you actually  _ cared  _ about getting better. Cared about your family, your friends, people who’ve tried to help you. My bad.”

He leaned closer, too close, the tick in his jaw getting stronger, lungs burning. “Fuck…  _ you.” _

“Right,” she laughed. “That’s right, Noah. Fuck me. Fuck this. Fuck that. Fuck everything you’ve worked off your ass to accomplish these past three years. Fuck finding your family, fuck making friends, fuck getting a job, fuck keeping it. Fuck all of it. All of  _ us. _ You’re done. You’re  _ out.” _

He drew a breath but she put up a hand, palm forward.

“Oh, spare me, Noah. Alright? You think you’re special. That it? Your pain, your guilt is not like the others’? You think you’re the only veteran finding it so fucking hard to fit in they think  _ back there _ is the only place they belong anymore? The only one thinking they’re so fucked up their loved ones are better off?”

“I don’t—”

Her voice had jumped several notches, bouncing off the windows and walls. “Like hell you don’t! Fifteen year-old kid shot to death after months of dehumanizing torture, a police officer killed trying to get her out, three children have lost their mother. But hey, it’s all about  _ you, _ isn’t it, Noah?” She jammed a finger into his chest again. “ _ Your _ pain,  _ your _ guilt,  _ your _ grief. It’s  _ you _ who can’t take it. It’s  _ you _ who’s running away. Running  _ “BACK” _ to the mind-bogglingly wonderful life that chewed you up and spat you out in the first place. You think you’re the only one? You think your pain is special? You come to this place three, four times a week, you walk these halls, you see other veterans and you don’t think  _ they _ struggle? You don’t think none of  _ them _ wake up every single day thinking that  _ ‘back there’ _ is the only place they belong? You think  _ I _ haven’t?”

He was taken aback, struck speechless for a long moment. He’d heard things, of course. Not from her - mostly from Andy and some other Crescenz VA staff who frequented the joint near the hospital where he and Andy would meet for beers. Nothing verifiable - rumors for the most part - but nothing that didn’t make sense, either. Honorably discharged at 49, INSCOM Major Kimberly Mitchel had spent most of her three-decade-long service overseas. Judging by her fluent Arabic, Dari, and Pashto, he figured - Wiesbaden Army Airfield, Germany. Probably  66th MIB[1]. Which would mean frequent deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. Which would mean what he knew all too well.

He was about to ask again if something was the matter when she just waved him off, grabbed her purse and a pack of  Newports , and pushed past him. 

“Actually, you know what?” she said in a chillingly flat tone, turning around. “Go, stay, do what you want. It’s your life. And maybe you’re right: I don’t know you. Hell, maybe I don’t know  _ any _ of you. Most of the time I grope in the dark, pushing off what you  _ can’t _ talk about and tumbling over what you’re not  _ allowed _ to. So, go ahead. Leave. I’m not gonna stop you. Not today.” She took a moment to regain her composure, eyed him with a sad, docile smile, and shook his hand. “Goodbye, Noah. Just… try not to get yourself killed. And close the door on your way out.”

With that, she let go of his hand, turned around, and marched out of the office, leaving him dumbfounded and speechless to follow her with his eyes all the way to the stairwell.

He did what was asked of him and gently shut the door behind him. For a long moment he just stood in the hallway, feeling strangely lost and found at the same time. It should’ve felt good, he thought, getting this over with, all of it, finally free to be on his way. But as soon as he started towards the main entrance it was as if gravity had it in for him, making each step more difficult than the last one. 

An odd image popped into his mind as he practically dragged himself through the hallway - the Pattern of Amber[2], last veil. He could almost see the sparks rising up to his chest, the air aglow as he pushed forward. It was weird, he thought, because he never particularly liked that book and the only reason he read it, virtually at gunpoint, was because Jamie wouldn’t shut up about it for two weeks straight. For a moment there he actually wondered whether upon reaching the foyer - provided he was strong enough to complete the Pattern, of course - he would be free to teleport himself onto any Shadow, any plane of existence, any time, any life he would choose. Which, subsequently, brought on the question of where would go, given the chance; and why.

Here, he thought, incredulous, given how hellbent he was on leaving. Of all the lives he’d ever known, all the lives he had left behind,  _ this _ was the only one he would do over. He would ask the Pattern to transport him onto a Shadow similar to this one, three years back in time. There’d be things he would do differently, maybe, but most of them, oddly, he would not. Maybe he wouldn’t wait for Julia to bust him spying on his son. Maybe he would contact her right away, tell her about his cover, ask her to give him another chance with Johnny, not right away, of course, but with time, once he’d gotten his shit together. Would she agree? Would she still ask him to leave? Threaten to blow his cover if he’d refused? Would she still reconsider a couple of days later? Would she still meet him for drinks twice a week? Would they grow as close as they have? Would he still ask for her help with Shelly? How would it even work? Would he even remember enough of this life to not make the same mistake twice? And if he did, would he still make it?

He’d always made fun of Jamie and his son Michael for spending hours on top of hours arguing until smoke came out of their ears about some imaginary detail in one of those fantasy books they liked. Could the Three-Eyed Raven interact with people from the past by warging into them? Could  _ anyone _ be taught to create a Pattern Trump? Could people rendered paralysed by a spell still perceive their surroundings?  _ “Who cares?”  _ he would laugh.  _ “It’s all made-up crap anyway. Just make up an answer and go with it.”  _ Yet there he was, standing in a dimly-lit hallway, staring at his phone, wondering if he should message Jamie and ask if the Pattern of Amber had the power to send someone back in time, and, if it did, would they retain their memory of what happened?

In the end, though, he turned around, and, taking a right, cut into the stairwell leading to the back entrance.

He wasn’t sure why he went back to the park or whether or not Kim would even be there, but, as soon as he cleared the revolving doors, there she was, slumped on the same bench where he sat an hour ago. Approaching slowly, he realized he had never seen her outside the office, out of her tall armchair. She looked smaller, leaner, almost fragile, silvery wisps of smoke brushing against her face and hair.

The only acknowledgment of his presence was a slight shift of her eyes and a barely noticeable curl of her mouth. 

“Got lost on your way  _ ‘BACK’?” _ she jibed. 

He sat next to her, patting a free space to his right for Willow to hop on. “May I?” he asked, motioning with his chin to a pack of cigarettes on her lap.

She raised an eyebrow, but held up the pack all the same. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t,” he quipped, inhaling deeply. “Well, I  _ haven’t. _ Not in a long time.”

She side-eyed him with a wry grin. “Lemme guess:  _ ‘three-years’ _ long time?”

“Yep.”

Kim shook her head and looked away. “What a  waste .”

He didn’t know what to say to that back in her office, and he sure as hell hadn’t had an epiphany on his way to the park. So, he said nothing, sucking another intake of noxious smoke and letting his gaze scatter in the mist of his clouded exhale. 

“Don’t you have patients?” he inquired cautiously after a long minute.

Lighting another cigarette, Kim glanced at her watch. “I have a memorial to attend in an hour. A friend burying his wife. So I canceled the rest of my day.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Yeah, it’s… fucked up is what it is. But what are you gonna do.” 

She let out a long swirl of smoke-curdled air, the rest of her thoughts and voice trailing off alongside it. He remained silent, watching her glazed-over eyes through the silvery veil of smoke, wondering who was there for her? At the end of a ten-hour day in this place with revolving doors that spat different faces with the same story, where did she go? There was no family as far as he knew. No children. 

“Close friend?” he asked, unsure if he should, but feeling compelled to fill the silence.

As if awakened from a  trance , she tapped the inch-long clump of ash off the cigarette butt. And then she nodded, small, rhythmic motions, like a bobblehead on a dashboard long after the car had stopped. 

“We go back. Way,  _ way  _ back.”

“The Brigade?”

She gave him a sly, lopsided smile. “You pay attention, Noah Hayes. I’ll give you that much. But no. Not the Brigade. After. When I came back. So, ten years or so, I guess. Ok, maybe not  _ way _ back. But… some days it feels like it.”

It was his turn to do the bobblehead. “It’s… nice.”  _ Oh fuck. _ “I mean, the friend. The  _ friendship. _ Going way back. Not the…” He gulped. “... burying the wife part.”

She laughed, tossing her cigarette  butt into the trash and patting him on the shoulder. “Keep your day job, honey. Grief counseling may not be in the cards for you just yet.” And, after a long pause, she added, “But yeah. It is. Nice. He’s a good man. One of those, you know? The ones that somehow manage to do it right, all of it. Great scholar. Great clinician. Great colleague. Great father, great husband. Well,  _ was… _ a great husband.”

“From here?” He nodded to the hospital compound. “‘Cause you said ‘colleague’...”

She shook her head.

“Not from here, no. I don’t think he ever actually worked at Crescenz. He did do part of his internship here. Then finished his residency and fellowship at the Baltimore VA.”

She was quiet for a long moment, just breathing. 

“I’m sorry,” she said at last, half turning to face him. “About before. I shouldn’t have been so… When you said you were leaving, I was…” She heaved. “It’s been hell. These last couple of days.” She patted his arm, looking away. “It’s not an excuse, I know. I don’t even know why I’m telling you any of this.”

Unsure of what he could say or do, or whether or not he should say or do anything, he just waited for her to level her eyes with his. 

“Guess you got rules for that, huh?” he quipped then, going for half a smile. 

She huffed a chuckle, rolling her eyes. “For dumping your personal crap on a patient? Nah, you think?”

“Well…” He scooted closer, angling himself toward her. “I’m not your patient anymore, so…” He spread his palms. 

Kim smiled, a big know-it-all smile, shaking her head at him. “Because you’re leaving.”

“Right.”

“For good.”

He raised and dropped his eyebrows. “Most definitely.”

“Going…”

“...back.”

“Right.  _ Back. _ How could I forget about the  _ ‘back’.” _

They both laughed a little. And then they both fell into silence.

“I wanted to go back, too, you know,” Kim finally said, tearing a thousand-mile stare from the middle distance.

He wrinkled his brow, but said nothing. 

“Ten years ago. When I came home. For a while, all I wanted to do was go back. I had a job, a handsome government pension, a house… I was good. Life was good. But then… one day… it wasn’t.” 

“That why you…?” he nodded toward the hospital building. 

“What? Ended up here? No.” She chuckled. “See, I was  _ supposed  _ to work here. The job was waiting for me when I got back. I flew in for interviews and background checks. And I couldn’t wait. You know, after decades of interrogating enemy combatants in a dimly lit bunker, watching the guys I served with dealing with PTSD, I was looking forward to it. It was like… I’d be doing what I loved most, working with people I respected, helping those boys find their way back to their families, to some normalcy… it felt… like a calling, you know? Like the natural next step.”

“But it wasn’t,” he probed, half-question half-statement.

“No, it was. Eventually. After I realized I had a shitload of issues of my own to sort through before I could even think of helping anybody else.” She looked away, eyes misting over as she let out the air through pursed lips like it’d been trapped in her lungs forever. “Funny. That I should remember it today. Of all days.”

He waited. 

“He saved me, you know?” she said finally, straining around the lump in her throat. “I was this close…” The gap between her thumb and index finger was virtually nonexistent. She pointed up to the row of windows on the third floor. “Right there was where it happened. My first day. My first patient. Communication officer, Operation Iraqi Freedom. Was on his way to the base. In the back of a truck. Road bomb. He survived. Lost an arm, part of his leg. You know. The usual.”

He knew. The usual. 

“I’d been back five months. There were some issues at first, of course, and I saw a therapist for a while, went to a couple of support groups. My first day here, I was sure I’d gotten my shit together. I was ready. So ready. Wearing my best pantsuit. Expensive makeup.” She huffed a flat snort. “Making the difference, you know? On the top of the world. And this kid… he starts talking, telling me what happened the day they were hit, and I…”

“ Choked ?” he prompted when her voice trailed off.

“Worse - ran out. He was still talking, telling me how he found what was left of the driver, how he pulled his PFC out of the burning vehicle... and I stood up, walked straight to the door, opened it, and ran out. I fucking ran. I didn’t stop for… I don’t even know how long. I was in pretty good shape, so... would’ve probably gone longer if it weren’t for my feet killing me in those fancy new platforms I bought for that pantsuit.”

He looked down at Willow’s head resting in his lap, then back at Kim. “PTSD?”

“Pfft,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Textbook.”

“You didn’t know?”

She eyed him with a sad smile. “Did you? Does anyone? Before they deck their first motherfucker for cutting in line, or freak out their whole neighborhood in the middle of the night when they wake up screaming their head off, or until they’re rendered cathatonic by the sound of a blown tyre… does anyone really know? Or want to know?”

His eyes grew darker. “Guess not.”

She sighed. “Well, neither did I. The signs were all there. But you know, you always make excuses: too tired, too edgy, long day, jetlag, not enough to drink, too  _ much  _ to drink…”

He was starting to see where this was going. “So, your friend, the one you’re going to see… whose wife…” He swallowed. “You said  _ ‘colleague’. _ Was he the one who...?”

She scoffed. “Put Humpty Dumpty back together again? Oh yeah. Eleven months of therapy. Twice a week. Medication, too. When I said he saved me…  it’s because he did. Same as if he’d fallen on a grenade for me.”

Same as she’d done for him, and so many others, he thought. “So, he was like you? Working with veterans?”

“... _ i _ _ s _ like me _.”  _ she corrected. “He’s one of the leading post-trauma specialists in the country. Started in internal medicine right out of med school. Switched to psychiatry two years in. He was in his early thirties when we met, already a published scholar. Had a private practice in Rittenhouse Square. I could hardly afford it, even with the government pension. A friend of mine made the call. I called her when I finally made it home the day that I ran out of my office. She called Richard. I don’t know what she said to him. But next thing I know - my doorbell rings. And there’s this man.” She smiled, shaking her head. “Tall, skinny, dark hair, hazel eyes, those big nerdy glasses, jeans and t-shirt, shy, charming smile. I was expecting… I don’t even know  _ what _ I was expecting. But, I mean, Rittenhouse Square, right? Hardly salt-of-the-earth crowd. But Richard… he just...  _ ‘Major Mitchel? I’m Dr Samuels’,  _ he said, shaking my hand,  _ ‘Lisa said you might need someone to talk to.’ _ And…” She shrugged. “...that was it.”

When she was done, he looked away, hoping the slight twitch of his mouth at the mention of her friend’s name had gone unnoticed.

“Richard,” he said, squinting against the sun and trying to sound  matter-of-fact , which, under the circumstances, was no easy task. “Richard Samuels?” When Kim frowned in puzzlement, he cleared his throat. “On the news, they said… the name of the guy whose wife was… you know, the cop?”

“Ooooh! That’s right. See? Comes to show you how all over the place I am today. Small world, huh? Did you know her? The cop?”

“No,” he lied, feigning nonchalance. “Just… the name sounded familiar. I think they actually mentioned it on the news, that he’s a psychiatrist working with veterans. I’m surprised I hadn’t made the connection sooner.”

Needless to say, it wasn’t the  _ news _ where this information came from. For all he knew, there was nothing on the news about Julia’s family. Or maybe there was and he didn’t know, nor was Kim going to check it out. Claiming the news to be the source, he’d learnt over his years in covert operations, was the easiest lie of all.

“Right. Right.” She half-turned toward him again, smiling weakly and placing a soft hand on his forearm. “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want to talk about Shelly. I should’ve realized—”

“No, it’s…” He returned her smile. “It’s fine.”

Kim closed her eyes.  _ “Fine’...” _ she croaked, “...not the  _ first _ word that comes to mind.”

He didn’t know what to say. There were things he wanted to ask her, about Julia, about Richard, about the children. He’d never met Julia’s husband. He saw him from afar, a couple of times, back in the day when he used to sit in his car near Johnny’s school. He saw some family photos on Jamie’s phone, heard some stories. And, of course, there was the small matter of a  _ very  _ detailed background check which he’d guilted/bullied Max into running in 2012 when the words  _ “I’m married now, John,” _ had nailed the last of his hopes shut forever.

He knew that Richard came from a family that prided itself in its military heritage. His father, retired at the age of 55, was a decorated Navy commander, his grandfather - a pilot who joined the Allied forces in 1942, two years before the US entered WW2, and his great-grandfather took part in the Great Blockade during WW1. He knew that Richard was the first man in his family to choose a different path. And he knew why, mid residency, he suddenly switched his specialty from Internal Medicine to Psychiatry and dedicated his life to post-trauma research. Without ever seeing the dog-tags p artly hidden by Richard’s collar in every picture, he knew what name was on. And thanks to Max’s highly motivated research, he also knew what actually happened to Lance Corporal Andrew Samuels of the US Marine Corps, Richard’s younger brother, who went MIA fifteen years ago, and who, for all Richard’s family knows, could still be alive.

“So, you knew her well?” he asked hoarsely, coughing his throat clear. “The wife?”

He wasn’t sure why he asked, or what was the point, really, but something about being able to talk to a total stranger who knew nothing of his ties to Julia but who seemed to share his grief nonetheless felt almost…  _ liberating. _

“Who, Jules? Pfft… better than I could’ve known my own sister if I had one,” said Kim, smiling. “Beautiful, funny, smart as a whip, and tough as nails - the whole package.” She shook her head. “My  _ God, _ they loved each other.” Her face fell. “Like newlyweds, all these years: she adored Richard, and he worshipped the ground she walked on. You know, he adopted her kid, from before they met.”

Quinn gulped. “Did he?”

“Yeah. She had a son, four years old when they got married - Johnny, the sweetest boy you’ll meet. Her ex - Johnny’s dad - was out of the picture. Also military, special forces. Never around. Walked out on them the day Johnny was born. Jules never spoke of him. Not a word. Not even to her kid. They fought about it. A  _ lot. _ She and Richard. They didn’t fight about a lot of things, but Johnny’s real dad, the way she refused to even mention him, Richard fought her on that tooth-and-nail, all these years.”

“Those stories…” He winced. “Always a mess.”

“Pfft… you’re telling  _ me?” _ Kim snorted. “I see them every day. Those boys that come here, a lot of them are  _ ‘occasional fathers’ _ from  way-back-when . Many of them try to claw their way back into their kids’ lives once discharged. From my experience, it almost never works.”

From  _ his _ experience, he thought, she was probably right. “How old is he?”

“Who? The boy? Oh, let me see… Um, I guess twelve by now. And  _ still  _ obsessed with his father.”

He felt his heart leap to his throat. “You mean… his  _ real _ dad?”

“Yeah.” Kim shook her head with a wistful smile. “Jules was stubborn as a mule, that’s true, but she was no match for Richard. I mean, he tried to respect her wishes, Johnny being  _ her _ kid and all, but there were places where he drew the line. When Johnny was six, he wanted a set of dog-tags like Richard had for his brother Andrew… oh, his brother went MIA years ago,” she clarified, probably mistaking the pained expression on his face for confusion. “See, Richard doesn’t even know  the guy’s full name, just that his first name was also Johnny.  _ ‘Julia’s Johnny’ _ he calls him. Anyway, Richard had a set of dog-tags made for the boy with a fake name and a fake social security number, to honor his father. The kid’s  _ still _ wearing them, to this day, never takes them off.”

“Wow,” was all he could squeeze past the knot in his chest.

“I know, right?” Kim sighed. “Well, that’s Richard for you.” She looked away, lips pursed, voice caught in her throat. “God he loves that boy. He loves their girls, too, but Johnny…” She shook her head. “Who knows if that kid’s dad is even alive. Probably not. And now he’s lost his mother, too.”

Unsure if he could take much more without his heart bursting to pieces, he forced a nod and looked down at his forcefully clasped hands. “Sounds like a very special person. Your friend,” he muttered.

A very special person who eight years ago picked up the shards of Quinn’s life, and whom Quinn repaid yesterday night by wrecking  _ his. _

Kim smiled. “Special doesn’t begin to cover it. You know what he once told me, about  _ ‘Julia’s Johnny?” _ Holding breath, Quinn lifted his eyes. “He said, the way he sees it, the world owes people like Johnny's father a debt that can never be fully repaid. Because they go out, time after time, nameless, faceless human shields, the last thing that stands between the world as we know it and those who ask to take it away. They go out, he said, forgoing their chance of normal life, of having a family, of raising their children. That’s what he felt he owed Johnny’s father: raising his boy like he was his own, giving him a home, and making sure he never forgets that it’s people like his dad who risk their lives every day to keep them safe.”

And then, it was all a blur. The tears he’d been keeping at bay pooled in his eyes, flooded his throat. Even if he’d known what to say, he wouldn’t have been able to push a single syllable past his spasmed larynx. Of all things, he thought about the Pattern again, one more thing he would’ve done differently were he given a second chance…

...gotten to know his son’s father.

Using another stretch of silence as an excuse, he finally managed to clear his throat and gently scratched behind Willow’s ears. 

“We should go,” he said, lifting teary eyes to Kim’s face with a sad, quivering smile. 

She held his stare for a long moment, squinting against the sun. “Why are you leaving, Noah?”

He slumped, closing his eyes and letting his head roll back. Even the sun of his face felt foreign, like it didn’t belong in the same world. The thought came to him with an overwhelming sense of relief, as if, in that moment, he’d gone through all stages of grief at once, and all that was left was the truth - the truth that, he suddenly realized, there was no point in hiding any longer.

He looked at Kim, and he was overcome by the most peculiar feeling, one he hadn’t had in a long time - peace, resolve,  contentment , as if not just the last three years but the entire span of his miserable existence boiled down to this very moment.

_ “I’m _ Julia’s Johnny,” he said, the words rolling off his tongue with surprising ease, weightless, hollow. “I was the reason she was in that warehouse. I asked her to look into Shelly’s case. And she did.” 

He expected there to be a sense of relief, or bitterness, or anger, but he felt nothing. It was as if the invisible lever he’d been pushing against for many years suddenly gave, and the dam he’d been trying to breach burst open. 

He watched the shock on Kim’s face give way to bafflement, then confusion, and, eventually - sheer, unadulterated sorrow. 

“Two years ago I made her a promise,” he added, and, shrugging his shoulder, let out a dry, humourless huff. “One of  _ many _ I’d made over the years, as you can imagine.”

Kim blinked once, frowning. “What did you promise?” 

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ve broken every promise I ever made: to her, and to every person I ever cared for. You asked me why I was leaving.” He drew a slow intake of breath and shouldered his backpack. “I’m leaving because I intend to keep  _ this _ one.”

  
  
  
  
  


___________________________________________________

The knock on the door jolts him awake. He opens his eyes, hazed and drowsy. It’s dark, the flurry-grey sky outside the curtainless window is grim and somber. There’s a foul, tangy taste in the back of his throat, and the half-empty bottle of Johnny Walker next to him is probably why. 

Blinking, he looks at his watch. It’s quarter past six. He should’ve been on the road by now, must’ve passed out.

He remembers driving home from his session with Kim, their last conversation, bits and pieces of it in no chronological order playing back and forth in his mind like jumbled segments of an old song on a damaged cassette tape. 

He stopped by the cemetery, but never got out of his car. He remembers the green, blue, red, black, and white meshed into senseless grey. He remembers Jamie, and Kim, and Richard, and Julia’s partner. He remembers the girls: Mia, holding her father’s hand, and Luna, scooped up in her brother’s arms, their ribbons and dresses the shade of black that no child should have to wear. 

He remembers his son, clad in a dark navy suit, stepping forward and unfolding a white piece of paper. 

And then he remembers driving away.

He came home to pick up his bag, but instead he picked up a bottle of Johnny Walker from Roger’s store and gulped it down from the still brown-bagged bottle. 

He kept drinking until the navy blue faded away. And then, for a long, blissful while, there was nothing.

He stirs, stiff and achy, casting a look around the apartment. The bare walls stare back, empty shelves, cleared surfaces, gaping voids of the kitchen cupboards… like he’d never lived here at all. 

He’s both surprised and relieved to see Willow prance to the door, tail wagging in anticipation. Must be Ellie, he thinks. He’d promised he’d stop by on his way out. 

The knock repeats, followed by the buzz of the doorbell, and Willow whimpers excitedly, spinning twice before darting an impatient look in his direction.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming,” he grunts, pushing himself off the sofa and stretching his arms and back.

Turning the lock, he opens his mouth to utter an apology, but it’s not Ellie he finds at his door. 

The man in the hallway looks nothing like Kim described. He’s tall, roughly Quinn’s height, but leaner, broad-shouldered and long-limbed. Much like his day-old stubble, his dark hair is peppered with scarce silvery strands. Instead o f a t-s hirt and jeans, he’s wearing a black suit, top button undone, light-grey tie pulled loose. 

The delicate, frameless glasses make his hazel eyes look almost translucent-green, big, red-rimmed, puffy. 

He looks… lost, like he suddenly can’t remember how he’d gotten here, or why. 

There were so many things Quinn had planned to say to this man if he were ever to get the chance to meet him , but in the end, looking at his pale, ashen, grief-riddled face, all he can muster is…

“I’m so sorry.”

He’s still wondering what he should do or say next, when his head explodes with sharp pain. 

The room spins and shakes as he tumbles back, hits the wall, and, losing his balance, slides to the floor.

“Hello, John,” he hears through the throbbing buzz as he looks up to find a tall, dark silhouette towering over him. “Richard Samuels,” says the man, shaking his fist loose. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1The 66th Military Intelligence Brigade ("Six-Six-M-I" and 66th MIB) is a United States Army brigade, subordinate to United States Army Intelligence and Security Command and based at Wiesbaden Army Airfield, Wiesbaden, Germany.[1] After years of history as a counter intelligence/intelligence group with headquarters in Munich and geographically dispersed detachments, it became a brigade on 16 October 1986, but was inactivated in July 1995. Reformed again as an intelligence group in 2002, it became a brigade again in 2008. [return to text ]
> 
> 2From Chronicles of Amber by Roger Zelazny - The Pattern is a single, intertwined curve, laid out in a spiderweb-like shape. Members of the Royal Family of Amber can walk along the Pattern to its center in order to gain the power to walk among shadows – alternate worlds. 
> 
> Walking the Pattern is not an easy task. There is a resistance that slows the walker, as if he is wearing lead boots that get heavier and heavier with every step.
> 
> Once at the Pattern's center, the walker has acquired the power to walk in Shadow. As well, being at the center gives him the opportunity to command the Pattern to send him anywhere he wishes – across the room, back up to Amber Castle, across the world, to another Shadow world, here on Earth, etc. [return to text ]
> 
> On a personal note, Quinn may not be a fan of Chronicles of Amber, but the author of this fic most certainly is. :)
> 
> To NS- Thank you! For STILL putting up with me and my recurrent obsessions, and for the time and effort you spend beta-reading and editing. You're the best!!!
> 
> To everyone else - Thank you for still being here and for reading you wonderful, insightful comments! They are the highlight of my day, each and every one of them, even if it takes me forever to write a reply. Juggling work and anything else is hard, but I do try to carve out the time for the fandom on occasion. thank you for being so amazing y'all!!!


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